Descriptive Paragraph

The sky is no longer a jovial baby blue. It no longer whispers of spring time and budding flowers and a sun whose only goal is to shine its life and warmth into every hibernating soul. The sky has darkened; its shade more like the color of the depths of the sea, and as the winds pick up in their ferocity, whispering angry words to the trees, the sky continues to bleed out blacker and greyer, bringing on early night. A raindrop, thick and full, splatters across the concrete path. Then another, right behind it, like kamikazes of the clouds they attack the pavement one by one, side by side, hard and swift as the peregrine hawk diving for its prey. There are thousands now, millions, bam bam bam, hitting the grass, the trees, the sidewalks with an unparalleled fury. No mercy, not for anything or anyone who dares to brave the cold and the wet. It is a torrent now, and the bells are ringing  - 10 to 1. Students sitting, huddled in the safe shelter of a community building, watch with blatant sorrow as their path to class becomes a thick obstacle course with little hope for any result better than a full-on soaking. The spare few who have umbrellas open them, the thin poles arcing wide and glorious, and the envious mutter under their breath. Those with sneakers, toms and ballet flats eye the puddles and the never-ending seas they are about to trudge through, thinking of wet sticky socks and paper-thin shoes clinging to their ankles for the rest of the night. Hoods are dawned, backpacks zipped, and determination burrowed into the forehead wrinkles on all the brave intrepids who dare to venture to the door. With a look at one another, a farewell and a good luck tucked away in a final nod, they embark, racing through the torrent, the angry sky playing dodgeball with each new target, striking them down faster than a machinegun and reaching its cold all the way to their shivering bones.